Municipal Biscuits
Over the weekend I went to visit my mother. Sometime over the past ten years or so, the historical markers from when we force-marched the Potawatomi out of Indiana have been changed from the annoyingly PC "Trail of Courage" to the more prosaically descriptive "Trail of Death". I approve.
It's interesting that the Potawatomi ended up in Osawatomie KS, where John Brown started his campaign of bloodshed. There'd be some remarkable irony if they somehow helped to start Brown on a path that would end by tearing America apart, but I don't really think they did. Still, though...
*****
The marker I saw was the one just north of Rochester, where they stopped at the end of the first day's march. I lived in Rochester from the mid 80s to the early 90s. I don't think I have ever in my life disliked a town as intensely as I did that one. It's not even that I disliked it, really - I just never trusted it. There was something badly wrong with that town. It's the sort of town that modern gothic horror novels take place in. I've always been most comfortable in the night, but the entire time I lived in Rochester, I was indoors after dark. That place was just wrong.
Some of the stuff that went on there: The Cole Bros circus kept its animals there over the winter. In 1940 their barns burned - I don't think anyone knows why to this day. Most of the animals were turned loose to escape the fire, and elephants were wandering about the town most of the day. You'd think something bizarre and visual like that, occuring in living memory, would really be part of the town's identity, but it's something that everyone treats as a secret.
They have a lake, Lake Manitou. It's a natural lake that's been there since the last Ice Age, although a dam was built across the outflow in the 1820s to make a it a huge lake with a very high head of water for milling. The Potawatomi generally kept away from the lake, and thought it had a lake monster (hence the name).
When I lived in Rochester a murder took place on the shore of the lake, and what I chiefly recall was how tight-mouthed the police and press were about it. I realize there are a number of possible reasons for that behaviour, but still...
On my way to work, I used to drive past the western end of Lake Manitou every day. One winter morning, before daylight, a hitchhiker actually *ran* from the short access road to the lake and jumped into the middle of the street in front of my van, making a huge exaggerated version of the standard thumb gesture. I just about ran him over - no way did I intend to stop. He jumped out of the way at the last second. That stays with me. He didn't appear frightened or anything, and he wasn't waving his arms like you would if you wanted someone to stop and help, but he was being very, very aggressive about thumbing a ride. He looked angry more than anything. I thought about reporting it to the police, but I wasn't really sure what I'd tell them.
Someone stole one Christmas bulb from my house. Just one - a red ceramic-coated C9. It couldn't have been kids, since I could barely reach it myself to put in a replacement - you had to stand on a little elevated stoop, and lean out over the side to get to it. They wanted that one in particular, since there were others more easily reached. They left the antique blow-moulded C9s alone (admittedly, touching one of those while it's lit will take your skin off), and just stole this one new one. Two days later, IIRC, a man and woman came knocking on my door about ten at night. They explained that they were looking for their little girl who was missing, and since I had Christmas lights (so did everyone on the block), they thought she might have come here. They then asked if they might come inside and look for her. I rather abruptly closed the door on them. They got in a station wagon and drove away. Again, I thought about calling the police, but didn't. I wish now that I had. I asked around next day, and they hadn't been to anyone else's house. I'm convinced these two incidents go together, but what the hell it might mean, I haven't a clue.
The guy who lived down the street from me, and whose name was quite similar to mine, was murdered. This happened on midsummer night. They found him in a field, laid out in a crucified position, missing his head. I heard about it on WBBM radio from Chicago. In a small town like that, you'd think that would be the talk of the town, but it wasn't. The local radio didn't talk about it, and the local paper didn't have an article. It made the Chicago news, though. A few weeks after that, his garage caught fire, and burned completely. Admittedly, the entire family were reputed as petty criminals, so it's not too surprising that one met with a bad end, but the absolute indifference to the news just really spooked me. I'd lived in small towns all my life up to that point, and I know how people from a normal town will act when something like that happens. These people didn't.
My mother thinks it's a fine town. She never did see anything wrong with it. She has an office there (she works as a property appraiser a few days a week still) across from the courthouse. Back in January, they had the one significant snow of the season, wet and heavy. They're in the habit there of using a front-end loader to scoop up snow from the square, which they then load onto a truck and dump into the lake. For whatever reason, this year they dumped a truckload of snow into the alley behind mom's office, where it promptly melted, sending water down into the basement of the building, ruining her plaster and flooring. Being a small town, they did the common-sense thing by admitting blame and offering to fix it. While the workmen are there this week, they arranged for her to have a temporary office nearby (an appraiser needs constant access to the courthouse). It's a barbershop that went out of business years ago when the barber died, and has remained empty since then. She's got a big marble sink and an ornate gilded mirror in her office now. She's got a child's tombstone from 1870 in her storage room, as well as a live intercom that communicates with some unknown place.
Click to Embiggen
I really don't like that town.
*****
I'm not quite sure what to make of the media insistence that Mitt Romney made a 'gaffe' (that seems to be a terribly fashionable word right now - you just can't write about politics without using it) by saying that while he didn't follow automobile racing all that closely, he likes to watch sometimes, and has several friends who own racing teams. First, I can't see where a candidate's views on sports are in any way relevant, plus I absolutely fail to follow the logic in the idea that Romney's being rich and admitting to having rich friends who own rich men's toys somehow means I'm unlikely to want him for President. It's worth remembering that the reason we 'ordinary Americans' can go to races is that rich people have racing teams. The people who try to stoke envy lose sight of that.
*****
On the topic of racing, what a bizarre incident at Daytona the other night. I'm quite sure no-one has ever hit a dryer jet before. I was completely horrified at first, since the jets at Indianapolis have a man who rides on a little seat alongside the engine, and I figured these were the same, and the operator was being burned to charcoal while we watched. Once I understood that it was automated, and nobody had been hurt, it became oddly fascinating to watch.
It's interesting that the Potawatomi ended up in Osawatomie KS, where John Brown started his campaign of bloodshed. There'd be some remarkable irony if they somehow helped to start Brown on a path that would end by tearing America apart, but I don't really think they did. Still, though...
*****
The marker I saw was the one just north of Rochester, where they stopped at the end of the first day's march. I lived in Rochester from the mid 80s to the early 90s. I don't think I have ever in my life disliked a town as intensely as I did that one. It's not even that I disliked it, really - I just never trusted it. There was something badly wrong with that town. It's the sort of town that modern gothic horror novels take place in. I've always been most comfortable in the night, but the entire time I lived in Rochester, I was indoors after dark. That place was just wrong.
Some of the stuff that went on there: The Cole Bros circus kept its animals there over the winter. In 1940 their barns burned - I don't think anyone knows why to this day. Most of the animals were turned loose to escape the fire, and elephants were wandering about the town most of the day. You'd think something bizarre and visual like that, occuring in living memory, would really be part of the town's identity, but it's something that everyone treats as a secret.
They have a lake, Lake Manitou. It's a natural lake that's been there since the last Ice Age, although a dam was built across the outflow in the 1820s to make a it a huge lake with a very high head of water for milling. The Potawatomi generally kept away from the lake, and thought it had a lake monster (hence the name).
When I lived in Rochester a murder took place on the shore of the lake, and what I chiefly recall was how tight-mouthed the police and press were about it. I realize there are a number of possible reasons for that behaviour, but still...
On my way to work, I used to drive past the western end of Lake Manitou every day. One winter morning, before daylight, a hitchhiker actually *ran* from the short access road to the lake and jumped into the middle of the street in front of my van, making a huge exaggerated version of the standard thumb gesture. I just about ran him over - no way did I intend to stop. He jumped out of the way at the last second. That stays with me. He didn't appear frightened or anything, and he wasn't waving his arms like you would if you wanted someone to stop and help, but he was being very, very aggressive about thumbing a ride. He looked angry more than anything. I thought about reporting it to the police, but I wasn't really sure what I'd tell them.
Someone stole one Christmas bulb from my house. Just one - a red ceramic-coated C9. It couldn't have been kids, since I could barely reach it myself to put in a replacement - you had to stand on a little elevated stoop, and lean out over the side to get to it. They wanted that one in particular, since there were others more easily reached. They left the antique blow-moulded C9s alone (admittedly, touching one of those while it's lit will take your skin off), and just stole this one new one. Two days later, IIRC, a man and woman came knocking on my door about ten at night. They explained that they were looking for their little girl who was missing, and since I had Christmas lights (so did everyone on the block), they thought she might have come here. They then asked if they might come inside and look for her. I rather abruptly closed the door on them. They got in a station wagon and drove away. Again, I thought about calling the police, but didn't. I wish now that I had. I asked around next day, and they hadn't been to anyone else's house. I'm convinced these two incidents go together, but what the hell it might mean, I haven't a clue.
The guy who lived down the street from me, and whose name was quite similar to mine, was murdered. This happened on midsummer night. They found him in a field, laid out in a crucified position, missing his head. I heard about it on WBBM radio from Chicago. In a small town like that, you'd think that would be the talk of the town, but it wasn't. The local radio didn't talk about it, and the local paper didn't have an article. It made the Chicago news, though. A few weeks after that, his garage caught fire, and burned completely. Admittedly, the entire family were reputed as petty criminals, so it's not too surprising that one met with a bad end, but the absolute indifference to the news just really spooked me. I'd lived in small towns all my life up to that point, and I know how people from a normal town will act when something like that happens. These people didn't.
My mother thinks it's a fine town. She never did see anything wrong with it. She has an office there (she works as a property appraiser a few days a week still) across from the courthouse. Back in January, they had the one significant snow of the season, wet and heavy. They're in the habit there of using a front-end loader to scoop up snow from the square, which they then load onto a truck and dump into the lake. For whatever reason, this year they dumped a truckload of snow into the alley behind mom's office, where it promptly melted, sending water down into the basement of the building, ruining her plaster and flooring. Being a small town, they did the common-sense thing by admitting blame and offering to fix it. While the workmen are there this week, they arranged for her to have a temporary office nearby (an appraiser needs constant access to the courthouse). It's a barbershop that went out of business years ago when the barber died, and has remained empty since then. She's got a big marble sink and an ornate gilded mirror in her office now. She's got a child's tombstone from 1870 in her storage room, as well as a live intercom that communicates with some unknown place.
Click to Embiggen
I really don't like that town.
*****
I'm not quite sure what to make of the media insistence that Mitt Romney made a 'gaffe' (that seems to be a terribly fashionable word right now - you just can't write about politics without using it) by saying that while he didn't follow automobile racing all that closely, he likes to watch sometimes, and has several friends who own racing teams. First, I can't see where a candidate's views on sports are in any way relevant, plus I absolutely fail to follow the logic in the idea that Romney's being rich and admitting to having rich friends who own rich men's toys somehow means I'm unlikely to want him for President. It's worth remembering that the reason we 'ordinary Americans' can go to races is that rich people have racing teams. The people who try to stoke envy lose sight of that.
*****
On the topic of racing, what a bizarre incident at Daytona the other night. I'm quite sure no-one has ever hit a dryer jet before. I was completely horrified at first, since the jets at Indianapolis have a man who rides on a little seat alongside the engine, and I figured these were the same, and the operator was being burned to charcoal while we watched. Once I understood that it was automated, and nobody had been hurt, it became oddly fascinating to watch.